ophelia calls
by vagabondsolace
Summary: She doesn't want to be tragic and yet, here she is, holding a knife to her own back. / or, it's all metaphorical, right? Jade-centric, slight Beck&Jade.


Summary: She doesn't want to be tragic and yet, here she is, holding a knife to her own back. / or, it's all metaphorical, right? Jade-centric, slight Beck&Jade.  
AN: Somewhat non-linear and no plot, I apologize for this mess.

–

_ophelia calls  
_

–

_(break my spirit, crack me open.)_

When she first opens her eyes, she sees spots of color that resemble bright bocci lights – but it's nothing like it should be, it's not pretty or glamorous. It reminds her that daylight has reared its ugly head once more and Jade tries unsuccessfully to will herself back into a dark slumber. Her first thought, almost autonomously, is to find the liquor. In her haze, Jade rolls out of her bed and almost knocks over a lamp; she can't remember a time where she's been anything but graceful.

And yet here she is.

She rubs the tired out of her eyes, feels a chill course through her veins as she realizes she left the window open. Again. Jade almost wonders how relieving it would be if she just fell off the sill one morning; perhaps accidently, perhaps on purpose – the world didn't need to know. The idea wasn't entertained for long, however, as she spotted what she was looking for: the half-empty bottle of gin, right next to the mountain of cigarette excrement that made it's own sad home in her ashtray.

Perfect. She doesn't bother being decent enough to get a glass from her kitchen _(waste of time, honestly)_ and she takes a long pull right from the bottle. Jade likes the burn she feels in her throat as the dry, harsh taste that is gin travels into her body, revels in the warm feeling she immediately gets inside of her belly. It's the most whole she'll ever feel.

Finally, she allows herself to take a cursory glance at the clock on the wall.  
It's 7:30 in the morning.

Jade likes to pretend it's just "one of those days," but she's not naïve or stuck in some fantasy world. She knows better.  
Everyday is one of _those_ days.

–

When Jade is seven and her father is always around, he tells her that she is like Aurora from _Sleeping Beauty_: pure, innocent, and untouched by the devastating world around her. A romantic, even. Robert West tells his daughter every night before bed that she is a princess who deserves only the best the world could possibly offer. She should never settle for less.

When Jade is fifteen and her father is nowhere to be found _(everybody leaves, it's a proven fact)_, she realizes he was wrong. Jade thinks she's less of an Aurora and more of an Ophelia. She may have started off pure, yes, but eventually she becomes tainted. Marred. Ruined. She doesn't love, doesn't feel – _(maybe it's because daddy's gonegonegone)_ – and a descent into madness is nothing short of expected.

It's in her blood.

–

She likes to cry the most when she's upside-down, dark hair streaming down the edge of her bed like dripping paint, body rigid and still. She can still taste smoke on her lips, feel it fill her lungs. The tears are never messy in that they're silent; they stream down her cheeks in an almost tragically beautiful fashion _(because that's how she wants to be remembered, okay)_; and, the only thing you can hear is her heartbeat,

_(- and break.)_  
If anyone finds her and asks, she blinks her eyes and pulls herself up; feels the blood rush from her head back to where it's supposed to be -_'Oh, I just got dizzy,'_ she says.

They believe her.  
_(she wishes someday they wouldn't.)_

_–_

_(never compromise.)_  
Beck doesn't understand, but Jade gives him points for trying.

She knows he loves her but, at the same time, doesn't. Not completely anyway. Not in the way she wants him to. It's her own fault, really. Again, he tries. And tries and tries and tries. But every time he pushes she pulls and no one ever wins. Their arguments are repetitive – _(why won't you just let me in?) _– but she can't.

And she's accepted this;  
Deep down, she knows he has too.

The clock ticks and tocks and Jades clings to the movements and the shape of his hands and the feeling of getting lost in his eyes because she doesn't want to get left behind, doesn't want to be alone.

She knows, inevitably, it will end. All things do. That's the practical, logical, explanation. And she pretends to be okay with that; slowly, quietly, and unfairly. But when she's alone, she likes to pray - pray to someone she isn't sure she quite believes in for something she isn't quite sure she wants just yet. And she isn't sure why, but maybe it's because, despite the inevitable, it still feels like it just might last as long as Beck says it will. _Forever_.

_(don't leave me.) _  
On the days their fighting becomes particularly more awful than usual and they find themselves taking two steps backward to regroup and cut their losses, Beck and Jade both know it's not because they don't love each other; because they do, entirely too much for their own good. Nothing's changed from day one or week seven or even year four, five, six and so forth. They're just tired of drowning.

–

"You're sad. You're sick."

The first time Jade hears those words she's thirteen. She doesn't cry or question what the girl means, just pulls her by the hair and careens her face into the brick wall. The girl _(whose name isn't at all important)_ goes home with a broken nose.

Jade goes home with an unspoken victory.

Now here she is, twenty-three years old and she realizes that that girl was right. She was sad. She was sick. She _is _sad. She _is _sick. And no one should ever have to be either of those so young.

She stares coldly in the mirror – unhappy, tired, disappointed. Like a broken toy that can't be fixed, she is nothing but a project in the eyes of others. Yes, she's a great actress, but not exceptional. A good singer, but not great. A fine dancer, but not spectacular.

It all screams imperfection. Flawed and useless, Jade knows she'll always be a little less than what's expected.

To her family.  
To her friends.  
To Beck.

To herself.

–

Sometimes, Jade sits next to people just to see if she can hear their heartbeat. See if it's loud enough, if it beats the same way hers does.

It sounds crazy, maybe, but Jade wants to make sure that she's really, you know, _alive_. Because she's just not sure anymore, you know. She goes through the motions of each day and smiles, practiced and hollow - _Hi, how are you? I'm fine, thanks_.

Jade can't help but wonder how many people can feel the deception radiating off her in sheets; the truth shining through slits from all the cracks in her expression.

–

_(ready or not, here i come.)_

Jade isn't ready. She wakes up screaming, sweating, near tears.

She grabs the gin. 4:57AM.  
It's never too early to start running.

–

Jade is criticized and applauded perhaps for several things, but the biggest one? Her cruelty. Her lack of apologies, her sharp tongue, her bruising relentlessness – all of it, it's something of a wonder, really.

_(this is how she plays.)_  
She has no remorse. She won't apologize for hurting anyone's feelings because that's exactly what people did to her.

However, it's in these same moments when things are going bad and she opens her big, fat mouth to sneer out words in a voice unlike her own, Jade begins to think that all of her adversaries were right.

–

"Will you still love me even when I'm not young or pretty anymore?"

The question sounds silly in of itself, but Beck knows better when Jade asks him this. He continues to play with the rings on her fingers and pretends to ponder before she jabs him in his side for even entertaining the idea of making her wait. He chuckles, a sound that makes her insides do somersaults and backflips, before kissing her head lightly.

"Of course. You're always beautiful in my eyes. I'd love you yesterday, today, tomorrow – forever, even."

His answer is corny and cliché and entirely more laughable and stupid than her asking the question in the first place, but it makes Jade want to cry because she knows he means it. And it doesn't help that she just has so much to say but doesn't know how; the words get caught in her throat, the simple syllables turning into boulders. So she stares, dumbly albeit, into the distance and hopes that he'll realize just how troubled and confused she is.

Jade doesn't respond, just grips his hand so tightly her knuckles turn white.

"Okay."

It's enough for now, for today, and maybe even tomorrow.  
But she'll never be sure about forever.

–

When she dies, she's tangled in her sheets – pale white skin contrasting against dark satin. There's no blood, no signs of a struggle, no pain. She is content. In another rare moment of victory, Jade is not Ophelia.

Like Aurora,  
she's pure.

–

_fin._

_–_

A/N: This makes no sense, I know. It's pretty open-ended on what happened with her dad but I guess I wanted it to be like he died/had a mental illness/et cetera, I don't know. If anything, this is me projecting my own emotions onto Jade so that I can get some shit out of my system. Again, I apologize. If you liked it, however, please don't hesitate to review.


End file.
